2001-07-08 - 10:13 p.m.

Season 2 finale:

It�s been a long, cold week. I�ve been back at the publishing company all week, the hours dripping torturously by. But now it�s Friday, the clouds have gone and the weather is warm, and I can do exactly what I want again. If only I could figure out that was.

The blues fest is going on downtown. I can go down there, soak myself in the humanity there, maybe break through the bubble and say hello to some strangers. If only I could do that, make a connection to one person out there, I would feel so much better about myself. I�ve had this goal so long, but it doesn�t get any easier. I can come up with a million reasons not to. But I will go out there again, torture myself if necessary but try to find something, someone in this sea of millions of people.

So I hop on the train. The action is in Grant Park, only I can�t remember which stop to get off at. I try Chicago. I walk out toward the lake, hoping to reach the park, only it�s not there. Only Lake Shore Drive and the lake, with the Ferris wheel of Navy Pier spinning far to the south.

My head is still spinning, trying to get clear. It all seemed so clear a month ago, like I had it all figured out. But I didn�t. I thought I wanted to meander, then I thought I wanted to focus. Now I�m trying to meander again, only it�s not working. I just get off at the wrong train stop because I don�t have the brains to plan, and wind up walking along the highway instead of enjoying the blues.

I wanted to fix everything at once, and for a moment it seemed so easy. All my problems would just be solved if I decided to do it, so I decided, and waited for it to happen. I would get a life and discover the meaning of life at once. I would overcome my fears and join in the feast of life.

What I was able to put off then, but can no longer, is that to be a part of the world takes suffering, and success is never certain. The only problem with the equation was the intrinsic suffering and the uncertainty of success. I saw the answer on the horizon; now I must deal with the brambles on the path.

I am suffering, yes. I tell myself that I must suffer, this is the price to be paid, I must come through to the other end of this.

I think of Saint Francis. He threw himself at the feet of others, invited them to whip him, throw stones at him, abuse him. He starved and froze. But he felt joy in it, knowing that he was paying the price for his God, that he must reach the depths before he could fly to the highest heights in heaven.

I am hardly suffering. I am comfortable; I am not hungry or cold. My friends and family love me. Only in my mind do I suffer, whip myself, throw stones at myself. But why? Francis suffered for an audience of one � God. Who do I suffer for? You? Does it matter if I suffer? Does anybody hear me, anybody care? I try to push you out of my mind, reclaim my thoughts, my life, for my own. Francis lived an example, but I cannot do the same. But each time I push my audience away, I find nothing. No purpose, no goals, nothing to be done. I cannot think for myself, cannot live for myself. I do not care enough for myself. I wish I cared, felt there was some reward to be had, but I cannot see it.

I want to cry. I feel tears welling up in my eyes. But am I forcing these tears to come for you? Will you never go away and let me find out if I really can cry?

I feel my headache coming back. It�s just a ghost of what it once was, but I can tell it�s the same beast, letting me know it�s still there. It�s just been in hiding all these weeks. Whenever I walk a long time, I feel it come back. My neck gets sore, and then my head feels that same old dull pain. It�s back because I�ve been walking along the highway for a while now. I decide to turn back toward the city; I�ll never make it to Grant Park at this point. But I can�t give up on my adventures; I have to fight with every weapon I have. So when I get back to the thick of the city, I head into the Rock Bottom brewery and up to the roof, where the people are crowded in for a drink at the beer garden.

I buy a drink and sit down on the stool. I look around me; there are couples here, standing or sitting close together and chatting, groups of five or six having a laugh after a long week at work. I absorb their togetherness, their humanity, by proxy. I want to feel a part of them by just being close to them, by looking at them and hoping one of them looks at me. But they don�t; they�re too absorbed in their own affairs to look at me. Everyone�s here to see and be seen, and I�m not being seen. I�m still a ghost.

So I move from the stool in the center of the action to the one in the corner, overlooking the street below. The sun�s just coming down on a beautiful evening. Life is going on. Somewhere out there, someone is playing the blues.

Somehow, I can�t bring myself to do all the things I tell myself to do. Maybe I�m just not made for this. I can�t be one of them. I�m a misfit. A square peg trying to fit into a round hole. But I can�t give up, because if I give up, then what else is there?

So I finish my drink and leave these people, take the El all the way back up to Uptown, reading Saint Francis along the way. Saint Francis, rolling in the snow, walking barefoot, throwing ashes in his soup. Saint Francis, begging people to throw stones at him to help him reach salvation. Nothing like me, living the easy, comfortable life, a young, bright, healthy man at the top of his game, in the greatest nation in history at the height of its power, with all the tools of the world at my disposal.

Ah, but you had your faith, Francis! Where is my salvation? I am cursed with this brain that won�t allow me any faith; it�s too crowded in here, too ripe with doubts and fears. This is a barren wilderness in which to plant seeds of faith. I am alone in here, Francis, and you are with your God! Which of us suffers more?

I don�t have my miles of wilderness to walk, but everywhere I go can be a wilderness. This togetherness; this crowded city is just an illusion. The train can be the loneliest place in Chicago; all these people not to talk to, not to meet. No talking allowed. Nobody talks to you who doesn�t want something from you. Be afraid. Tense up. Throw on your defenses, and you�ll never get hurt. We don�t need any more friends over here.

The train reaches my stop � Lawrence � and I descend back into Uptown. The show at the Aragon is half over, but there�s still a guy on the street hawking tickets.

�Need a ticket? Here, I�ll give you a deal.�

I look up at the electronic marquee. It�s 9:26. The Coldplay show started at 7:30. I give him five bucks for the ticket and go inside.

The inside of the Aragon is set up to look like the courtyard of a Moorish Castle. Spires and balconies wind around the edges, and above, the ceiling is flecked with lights to give the feel of an evening under a Spanish sky.

But standing from the balcony, the sight to behold is the sea of people, one next to the other, swaying together to the music. They�re young; high school and college age; lots of girls in tight pants and backless shirts, their boyfriends not far off. They stare up at the band, letting the music express what they cannot. The band sings about feeling alone, and this helps them feel together, like they are part of something bigger than just themselves.

I see a girl sitting up against the wall, smoking a cigarette. She will be the one I will talk to, if anyone. I go up to her, after much hemming and hawing, and ask for a light. I have one of my final cigarettes with me. She smiles and obliges, handing me a lighter. And thank her, then stand and smoke my cigarette for a while, watching the people sway. And then her boyfriend comes back and they kiss. And I wander off again.

Yep, they can sit there and watch the band and feel like a part of something. I once could have been part of this. I used to know the latest bands. Now I�m too old for this crowd. I�m condemned to wander the sidelines, an observer in someone else�s moment.

-

It�s ridiculous, what I�ve been doing. I know it. I do the exact opposite of what most of me wants to do, and I feel bad about it. I search for truth by running away from things. I want to feel part of a community, so I run away from my friends who have created this community in Chicago, flimsy though it may be. I try to create instant community by going off alone. My entire project can be summed up as follows: put myself in situations where I feel uncomfortable and write about said discomfort. Why? Maybe I�ve been punishing myself, paying for that Catholic guilt, that comfortable life that I�ve never allowed myself to enjoy.

I have to forgive myself, let myself do what I want and be happy. I don�t have to make myself feel like I�m all alone and have no friends; I do have friends, and they are fun to be around.

I was intending to go to a rally this weekend, for Jesse Jackson�s Rainbow/PUSH Coalition on the south side, but screw it. Life is about having fun, and I will do whatever I want. So my friends and I go downtown to the blues fest.

We have a great time among the people, laying out our blanket and feasting on a picnic of hummus, sandwiches, cheese, tomatoes, the whole nine yards. We are one blanket in a sea of blankets, one little cell in a body of people, together but separate from these other people, each little group enjoying its summer day in Grant Park.

Yes, I have to let myself enjoy these moments, enjoy everything that happens for what it�s worth. When I start to get upset and frustrated (could it be? Real live feelings?) I repeat things in my head to keep me on the track. Today is the only day of my life. Choose to be happy. Enjoy the little things.

I let myself go for the day and enjoy myself. But then the next day comes, there�s always a next day to push forward or slide back, so I tell myself that I can do this, I can make my dreams come true if I just believe in myself. And I go marching out on my own the next day, out and up to Andersonville, the once Swedish, now hipster neighborhood to the north where the Midsummer Fest is going on.

It�s a nice day and the bands are playing and the booths are set up and the people are filling the blocked-off streets. The only thing I know how to do at an event like this is treat it like a journalist, like I�m on assignment for the newspaper, and I�ve got to see everything I possibly can and absorb the feel of the place, just open up all the receptors and let it hit me and see what happens.

At one stage, a band plays to a small crowd of polite fans who dance and clap. At another, a travel agency sends a group of women onstage to perform a tropical island dance and make us all want to run off to Hawaii. I take the Pepsi challenge, sipping from two unlabeled cups and telling the upstanding young man which cola I prefer. I buy a Sangria and weave through the crowds, making sure to glance at each booth as I pass.

At one spot, a climbing wall has been set up for the children to see how far they can go, the parents watching from below. One woman watching asks me for the time, but I don�t have it.

�Are you watching anyone in particular?� I ask her.

�No. I�m just amazed at how high these kids are going,� she says. And we chat for a moment about the kids, root for each one to make it to the top and cheer when they do, and then say good day.

I want to talk to more random people of course, I look around, but there aren�t any attractive girls around, or the situation isn�t quite right, or my nerve just fails me when I could be making it happen. This is where the new me would get all mad at the old me for taking over at just the time when the new me was supposed to steer us in a different direction.

But this time the new me has learned a lesson; he has learned that change cannot be forced, can not be simply decided upon. No, I won�t get mad at myself, I�ll just tell myself, that�s okay, you don�t have to talk to anybody if you don�t want to, but wouldn�t it be nice if you did? You can do whatever you want to, but maybe it would be nice if you tried something else, actually got up the nerve, No pressure, just do it when you�re ready, just take your time and know that I�m there to support you.

-

So I forgive myself and I let myself go. I try to let myself just be, not writing as much now, not banging my head against any walls. If I can just let myself do what I want I�ll be happy. Only the powers that be have other plans. Just when I feel like I�m on top of things, suddenly there�s no room to breathe. Nate is shouting Alleluias about his new play and banging away on the computer for a couple days, and then Karla finds out that her best friend is very ill, and I can�t write in here, I forget about my little plans and battles; the apartment is suddenly very heavy. I can�t be anywhere in here and be happy, but I can�t think what to do; I have to get out of here, to the forbidding world outside, anywhere but here�

-

�A wheel,� Lee bellows. �An wheel that keeps on turning.�

I try to make sense of him. �The world is a wheel?� I say. �Or your life?�

�Keeps turning� I wanna have something that doesn�t turn.�

The place is quiet except for him. There�s me, Lee, and this other guy Carlos who hasn�t had a day off in 21 days. Lee�s doing all the talking.

�Like a� hamster wheel. Turning.�

The barechested bartender is getting sick of him carrying on.

�I can�t have you shouting out like this, bothering everybody. Nobody wants to hear you yell nonsense all day, okay?�

He switches on the Lakers game. Carlos turns to him.

�Lee. How you doing, man?�

�Carlos.�

�Lee, you�re a good man. Only he don�t like it when you go on like this, okay? You have to stop shouting.�

Lee looks at him blankly, trying to puzzle something out in his head.

�I don�t�mah money�zno good here?�

�What�s that?� the bartender asks without looking away from the Laker game.

�My money�zno good? I can�t buy� nother drink?�

�You can be quiet, or you can go somewhere else. This is my house. You can yell nonsense somewhere else if you want, but not in my house�

Carlos and the bartender drink a shot together. It�s a tradition for them. Then Lee starts up again.

�What is this world� what is it doing?�

�That�s it, buddy. This is your last drink.�

Lee looks down at his drink and frowns.

-

�And then I leave the Saxony Liquor Lounge, only I don�t want to go back into the apartment, so I walk right past it toward the lake, only I don�t want to go there, there�s nowhere I want to be, so I just stand at the intersection of Sheridan and Montrose, staring at the streets, the cars rolling and the people scuffling, the light changing from red to green to red again, feeling numb, baffled, unable to think at all.

I have reached the bottom. Perhaps I can build up from here. From here, things will not quite be the same. I don�t write much of anything for the next two weeks, partly because Karla�s friend dies and it doesn�t seem right to write about that, and my brother and friend Cindy comes up to visit, and I just let the project go. The running commentary in my head goes quiet, Pants LaRuey is replaced by Toothy McGee the existentialist, and he doesn�t feel the urge to write. He just lives his life subconsciously without making it make sense.

The days of wild mood swings quiet down, Karla moves out, things settle back to normal, and I just let myself be quiet for a while. I remember that it�s nice to have some down time, some privacy in my head, to let everything disappear.

Sometimes, you have to let all the bells and whistles go and see how you�re doing with yourself. I find that it�s going okay. I�m happy with myself. I like myself. I�ve done some things I�m proud of, I�ve made a good effort. I make sure to tell myself that, and it gives me a boost, makes it a little bit easier to go on with my day. I can build from here.

-

And this is where we find another arbitrary break-point, the second big chunk through, the Diaryland intermission. We�re almost up to present day. Get up and go to the bathroom now, cause you won�t want to miss the rest of it. Exciting stuff. Yeah.

And if you want it to get any more interesting, you should let me know what you liked most and what you liked least, what things stuck out as memorable, so I can figure out how to work this thing.

And also, thanks for all your kind words of encouragement, Eric, David, Andy, Nate, and everybody. You�re the greatest.

And stick around for the halftime show, coming right up!

previous - next